


Halloween

by llyn



Category: Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drugs, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taichi and Yamato are out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halloween

_Why not everyday?_

_Are you so afraid?_

Dead Kennedys - “Halloween” 

* * *

“ _Taichi, hey_ ,” the message begins, as if Taichi had called Yama after months of silence and not the other way around, “ _I’ll be in town Friday night. There’s a party and I thought…_ ” The honey thick voice trails off, infinitely suggestive, and Taichi finds himself suddenly half-hard on the train home from the gym, eyes squeezed shut. “ _Anyway_ ,” teasing, like Yama knows what he’s done, “ _Call me_.” 

* * *

Friday night is Halloween, Yama’s “party” is the gay bash at Dirty Jack’s, and he tells Taichi to come alone so many times in their brief, murmured conversation that Taichi almost brings someone, just to watch Yama get mad. But the truth is Taichi lives off the scraps Yama throws him. He would never, ever, ruin his chance to get the blond on his back, if just for one night.

He doesn’t regret his good behavior when he arrives at the club absolutely alone and spots Yama across the crush of the dance floor, in a little pair of angel wings and a littler pair of gold lamé hot shorts, go-go boots and a tinsel crown on his head. When Taichi pushes closer, he sees how Yama’s bare skin glitters under the roving lights. “Who let you out of the house like this?” Taichi asks over the rib-rattling bass once he’s drawn up behind him, and an instant later has an armful of near-naked blond angel.

“Taichi!” Yama draws back from the hug to look at Taichi’s Dylan costume, black knockoff ray-bans that hide his eyes, a well cut suit, an oxford shirt buttoned up to the collar, and his poofy hair combed poofier, then he sinks into Taichi’s arms again with an approving hum in his ear, “You look sexy,” he purrs, bringing his lithe body tight against Taichi’s. He’s not the least bit concerned about being seen. They’ve had their picture online before, after one of these nights. It’d barely made a difference, and not nearly in the way Taichi had hoped. Then again, Taichi’s not the only man Yama’s been caught kissing since he first stepped inside the limelight.

“You look like twink of the year,” Taichi says, but his hands trace Yama’s bare skin from the base of his wings to the twin dimples just above his ass, “Seriously,” he says into Yama’s hair, “What are you wearing?” 

“I’m an angel,” Yama says, leaning back to wet his lips and blink his eyes—all black pupils—at Taichi. 

“No, you’re not,” Taichi says, and Yama laughs and ducks his tinsel-crowned head, “You gonna gimme some of what you’re on, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Of course,” Yama says, playing with the satin lapels of Taichi’s slim cut jacket, “It’s just that it’s in my boot right now. So, I can’t get it,” he explains with a self-deprecating grin and Taichi decides he can’t wait any longer. He kisses that grin from his lips, loving that Yama can’t wait either. Teeth—always teeth with Yama—trap Taichi’s bottom lip, and he curls a hand around Yama’s ass in retaliation, squeezing hard. Yama moans in his mouth, letting his lip go, and Taichi pulls away from the kiss while he still can, to scan the club for the darkest corner he can find. 

Yama beats him to it, grabbing his wrist and dragging him away from the dance floor and out onto a crowded balcony where the smokers have congregated. Yama cuts a path through the crowd easily, leaving a trail of men with their mouths hanging open in his wake. Toward the rail, he takes a paranoid scan of the group before planting a foot up on an empty chair and digging a cellophane wrapper from his boot with effort. 

As Taichi tears it open with his teeth and hastily dry swallows a dubious looking pill, Yama drapes himself over his back, smelling sweet amid the acrid smoke. He bites and sucks at Taichi’s ear, nuzzling against his sideburn, one hand coiled around his hip. “We’re gonna fuck all night,” Yama murmurs, breath clouding as he shivers against Taichi. 

“Yeah,” Taichi answers, hazily. He shivers, too, but not from the cold. 

“Gonna make me yours,” Yama says. Taichi turns to take the blond back in his arms. He’s all goosebumps in the October air. 

“You _are_ mine,” he says, and kisses him, with lips, tongue, and teeth, until Yama’s hands twist in his hair and his hips cant forward, seeking more friction. “Let’s find a place to take care of this,” Taichi says, stroking Yama’s dick where it stretches the shiny fabric of his shorts. They’re making a scene, the smokers watching a young Bob Dylan french kiss an angel with undisguised interest. Taichi knows he’ll knock out the first asshole who asks to share, so it’s time to move on. Besides, he’d rather have his dick already wrapped in the velvet grip of Yama’s ass when the molly kicks in. 

“Where to, baby?” he asks, resting his hot forehead against Yama’s as he keeps stroking him. Yama’s barely-blue eyes crack open, heavy lashes hardly lifting, and Taichi can see he’s really feeling it now.

“Bathroom,” Yama says against his lips, and Taichi leads the way, feeling the first fizzy fuzzies fizzling under his skin as the drug says hi to his bloodstream. He pushes through the crush of the club with more effort than it took Yama, who he's pulling along behind him by the hand. A few men make eyes his way and Taichi grins back. When Yama's not in town he doesn't have a type, and Yama's usually not in town.

The stalls in the men’s are all loudly occupied, so Taichi bends Yama over a sink with one proprietary hand on his naked back and the other scrabbling in his suit pocket for the lube and condoms he's stuffed inside, greedy as any trick-or-treater. He pulls down those clinging shorts and meets Yama's gaze in the mirror as he lubes up a finger in a hurry and works it inside.

“Quick this first time,” he says, adding another finger with just as much haste, “then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you right.” 

“Take—mmph,” Yama says, “Take off your dumb sunglasses first.” 

He smacks Yama’s ass for the attitude but obeys, tossing them on the counter with a clatter, and Yama’s happy, “There's my Taichi,” doesn’t help the twisting feeling he gets in his gut when he sees himself in the mirror, with bitten lips and blown pupils, poised above the pretty blond. He knows Yama’s bad for him.

“Taichi, please,” he begs, rocking back impatiently against Taichi’s fingers where they’ve stalled.

Taichi forgets his reservations, and slips a third finger inside.

Yama fights to keep his eyes open, watching Taichi as Taichi watches his own fingers sliding in and out. Taichi rolls a condom on his straining dick before he pushes inside. Yama’s eyebrows draw together and he bites his lip, but takes it, inch by inch. Takes it to the root, beautifully. Takes it and asks for more. So Taichi grabs a handful of his hair and fucks him like they’re strangers. Pretends he’s picked him up for the night, and wonders—if they hadn’t met so very long ago—if he’d even have a chance. If he could charm his way into Yama’s glittering life today, starting from scratch. _Yeah_ , he thinks, as Yama moans his name in broken syllables, slender body loose as a rag doll, _I could._  
  
His tight ass is Taichi’s, and if anyone wants to watch them now, he wouldn’t know or care. The world’s narrowed to the perfect width: him and Yama, no one else. It’s hot, too, because Yama’s nearly naked, but Taichi hasn’t even taken off his jacket, as if Yama’s the slut, and Taichi the one with more important things to do. 

Yama’s little wings flap uselessly, and Taichi pins them flat when he leans forward to bite the back of Yama’s neck. He reaches around to stroke the blond's dick. It doesn’t take much to get him off, and Taichi's forgotten how much he loves the hurt little sounds Yama makes when he comes. It sends him over the edge, and for a long moment after he just breathes, draped so that every part of their bodies is in contact.

They fight over what to do next. Yama wants to take Taichi to his hotel: he has to leave town early. Taichi wants to take Yama home: he’d rather Yama not leave at all. It’s not much of a fight, both of them too sated and high, but they do their best to glare at one another on the sidewalk. Taichi wins when he leaps into the cab first, reciting his address to the driver with all the authority he can muster. On the drive there, he sucks Yama back to hardness while Yama’s head lolls against the headrest. The cab driver begs them not to, but doesn’t kick them out, either. 

Just inside his front door, he strips Yama of his shorts and boots and his silly wings, but won’t let him take off the tinsel halo that he wears like a crown. He takes him a second time on his bed, with Yama on top. Things start to get strange and personal and ugly, as Taichi grabs his wrists, saying “mine,” and licks his pink nipples, saying “mine,” and bites his neck so hard he leaves marks, saying, “mine, mine, mine.” And Yama begs to be hit, and hurt, and slapped, and spanked, and insulted, and humiliated. He even calls Taichi his daddy, until Taichi says, “Your daddy doesn’t want shit to do with you,” and Yamato gasps as if struck, eyes filling, but grinds down on Taichi’s dick harder than ever.

“Your daddy doesn’t love you,” Taichi says, and Yama comes with a cry. 

The third time, he lays Yama on his back, and kisses his tears away. He kisses the inside of a buttercream thigh and tells Yama he’s beautiful. He kisses the back of his knee before he hooks it over his shoulder and tells Yama he’s an angel. He takes him again, loose and wet now with Taichi’s come, and tells Yama he’s perfect. And once Yama stops shaking he starts telling sweet lies, too. That he’ll never leave Taichi. That he dreams of Taichi. That he’ll be Taichi’s and only Taichi’s. They bury each other in sugar and honey. It goes on for a long, long time. Until Yama’s saying, “I love—ah, I love—” and Taichi’s fucking him so hard the headboard’s rubbing the paint off from the wall.  

“I love—”

“Say it, Yama,” Taichi begs, “Come on, baby.”

But Yama comes without saying it, so Taichi doesn’t say it either. 

* * *

Fighting the pull of sleep, Yama makes them coffee in the French press he gave Taichi as a present, years ago. He makes the perfect cup, of course. It's the deep brown of Taichi's eyes and bitter. They watch the weak November sunrise, side-by-side and silent on the balcony.

Then it’s only a matter of time. Taichi lends him a t-shirt and some shorts that shouldn’t look as good as they do when he slips them on. They lean against each other on the couch, not talking, and Taichi idly strokes his hair until Yama’s phone starts to ring where it’s hidden inside his tall, white boot, crumpled by the door.  

“Hello?” Yama’s voice is a rasp, and he clears his throat, as the man on the other end begins a tirade. Taichi hears “late” and “jet” and “skinny ass” and “millions.” 

Yama clears his throat again, and says, “I’m coming now.” 

Taichi hears, “another goddamn one night—”

“He’s not—” Yama starts, loudly, but stops himself at once, glancing terrified toward Taichi. He disappears into the bedroom. Taichi hears him say, “Yeah,” and “Yeah,” and “I said _yes_ , okay?” 

Taichi stretches out on the couch, pretending not to recognize the sounds of Yama gathering his things. Yama’s soft, “Taichi?” is one of the first words they’ve spoken to each other all morning. 

Taichi opens his eyes to find Yama frowning at the borrowed shirt he’s wearing. Taichi says, “Keep it.” 

Yama’s blue eyes soften. Taichi sits up and pulls him closer by his hips, pressing his face against Yama’s flat stomach and reminding himself he knew this would happen. He pushes up Yama’s shirt to kiss just below his belly button, and Yama laughs. He cups Taichi’s face in his hand for a moment. Then he’s gone.  

* * *

Taichi wakes up Saturday night on the couch, more thirsty than heartbroken. Yama’s a thousand miles away again. It’s a familiar feeling, more comforting than when he’s near. Still, Taichi can’t even look at his bed, let alone sleep in it. Not yet, anyway. But as he stumbles through his bedroom, eyes carefully averted from crumpled sheets and condom wrappers on his way to the shower, his feet catch on a ring of golden tinsel, and he falls hard. 

 


End file.
